


let the rest piece me together

by charlemint



Series: let me rest in pieces and let the rest piece me together [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Gun Violence, Homophobic Language, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, PTSD-like symptoms, Season/Series 11, Terry Milkovich Being an Asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:53:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28446429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlemint/pseuds/charlemint
Summary: The year started off with a bang, literally, for Mickey, and even though he's married now, his life shows no signs of slowing down.--It all starts when Ian, a few weeks into their marriage, breaks the hair clippers.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: let me rest in pieces and let the rest piece me together [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089671
Comments: 17
Kudos: 250





	let the rest piece me together

**Author's Note:**

> This is a self indulgent fic that ran away from me.  
> It started with the funny little idea of Mickey prematurely going gray, and turned into a rollercoaster from there.

It all starts when Ian, a few weeks into their marriage, breaks the hair clippers.

Mickey’s got one hand shoved in his boxers and the other hand holding his phone above his head. He’s barely even touching himself, fingers brushing against his half interested dick, while he watches an even less interesting porn video he’d nicked off the front page of some quickly googled site. He glances away from the two men going at it on his screen to check the time; 10:46 pm. 

Ian had gone off to take a shower, leaving with the promise of fucking Mickey into their bed after, but that had been almost an hour ago. He knows he should’ve gone to check on his husband by now to see what’s taking him so fucking long, but by the sounds of it Debbie’s on some kind of rampage. She’s stomped past their door a few times already, and Mickey isn’t the Milkovich assigned to dealing with that particular fucking Gallagher. He doesn’t want to risk getting swept up in her war path, especially while he’s trying to maintain even some baseline level of horniness at the moment.

Mickey sighs heavily to the empty room. He figures he’ll give Ian a few more minutes before he finally gives in to go find him. He’s not going to get off like this, and if Mickey finds Ian doing anything short of being dead on the bathroom floor, he’s going to kick his ass and wank in his shampoo bottle.

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to wait much longer at all, because just before Mickey’s irritation reaches its limit, Ian bursts into their bedroom.

The sound of the accordion door being ripped open startles Mickey enough that he almost drops his phone onto his face, his hands shooting up so fast to catch it he nearly breaks his fucking thumb when he catches it on the waistband of his boxers.

“The fuck, Gallagher?” Mickey barks, sitting up as Ian starts to noisily rifle through the boxes and cluttered shelves that line one side of the room. Mickey tosses his phone to the side and knits his brows while Ian prods around, muttering to himself. “The fuck you doing?”

“Do we have an electric razor hanging around?” Ian asks, hunched over a corner. The towel around his waist keeps slipping, and Mickey’s starved libido makes him immediately distracted by it. It takes a long few seconds of silence before Mickey realizes Ian had been talking to him; the tornado that seems to have possessed his husband whips around to look at him, impatient for an answer.

His eyes are still on the cut of Ian’s hip like a homing missile when his mouth finds the ability to speak. 

“Not that I know of,” he answers, finally, unhelpfully. 

Mickey gets a good look at Ian, then, when he kicks a box back under their dresser and turns his body towards him, hands clutching at the lavender towel. 

“You cut your hair.” Mickey arches a brow, taking in the buzzed look. The last time he had seen Ian with a shaved head, they’d been in prison, and Mickey had made it a point from the very first day to badger him until he got rid of that god awful dye job.

“Yeah,” Ian sighs, running his hand over the ginger fuzz. “I ran out of gel this morning, and the top was getting too long anyway. Figured I’d just cut it. But the clippers died before I could clean up the last few spots.” 

Mickey narrows his eyes at his husband. That hair gel was _their_ hair gel, but Mickey files away that little bit for later. He has more important things to worry about at the moment.

“Jesus Christ, I nearly sent out a search party for your ass. I’m literally withering away here waiting for you to come fuck me, and you were busy having a Britney Spears moment in the mirror,” Mickey gripes, his hands waving in front of him dramatically, but his theatrics only earn him a charmed smile by Ian.

“Oh, so sorry Mick,” Ian teases, feigning an apologetic look his way. He pouts his bottom lip out slightly. “Must be hard going a whole twenty-four hours without sex when you survive on dick and barbeque pork rinds, exclusively.”

Mickey doesn’t even try to hide his laughter, even as he flips Ian off. Fuck his husband, but also _fuck his husband._

“Fuck you, bitch. Are you gonna come over here and remedy the situation? Because I finished my pork rinds earlier,” Mickey shoots back, his tongue wagging between his teeth. 

Ian rolls his eyes, lips pressing deep at the corners to keep him from smiling. “Yeah, alright. But you’re sure we don’t have any hair clippers around? I just gotta fix a few spots.”

“Fuck it. Use one of Debbie’s if you have to.”

“I’m not gonna use the same razor she probably shaves her pubes with!” 

“Jesus Christ, then we’ll dip into the wedding funds and get one tomorrow. Your hair looks fine. Can you _please,_ just come over here.” Mickey gestures to the empty side of the bed impatiently; fuck it, he’s not above begging at this point. 

Ian gives in, thankfully, tearing the towel from his waist and throwing it at Mickey. The towel hits him in the face and drapes across his head, and he grumbles as he pulls it off, dark hair sticking up comically in all directions. 

“Assho--” The press of a grinning mouth on Mickey’s cuts him off, and soon Mickey gets what he’d been so patiently waiting for.

\--

“Fuck, Ian, right fucking there,” Mickey groans, face pressed into the sheets. He’s holding onto the edge of the mattress like his life depends on it, while his husband pounds into him from behind. 

It’s been a few months since Ian came barreling into their room with a shaved head, which has been currently dubbed his _quarantine look_. And maybe it’s a little crazy to put so much blame on an inanimate object, like a faulty electric razor, as a bad omen, but Mickey himself is probably a little crazy at this point. Who knew something so innocuous would be the perfect symbol of things to come?

If they had fucked a lot before all this quarantine shit began, they had to be breaking records by now. It hadn’t been so different in the beginning. Life continued as it usually did, even as things slowly began to shut down, and a general state of unease overtook the public. Mickey only paid enough attention to know the basic shit. Enough to keep Debbie from screaming at him to wear a mask every time he turned around, even getting Franny in on it. That tiny, disapproving scowl more effective on Mickey than he cares to admit.

But soon things like just avoiding the hell out of people turned into places like the Alibi closing up, and since neither he nor Ian had bothered getting jobs just yet, there was scant to do besides fuck and fight while being holed up in the Gallagher house. Currently, they were in the fucking portion of their day; the fact that they only ended up there because of an argument over if they needed to go to Costco _again_ was besides the point. 

“You gonna come with me after this so we can get stuff before they hike up the prices again?” Ian pants over him, and Mickey groans again, though not out of pleasure.

“Ask me one more time and you’re gonna find yourself on an episode of _Sex Sent Me to the E.R._ ,” Mickey snips. Besides the sex and bickering, they’ve been watching a lot of stupid daytime tv too. It makes Ian physically shrivel, but Mickey fucking loves that show. He arches and pushes hard onto Ian’s cock to drive the point home. Ian lets out a surprised sound and nearly loses his balance behind him, but he manages to catch himself, grabbing hard at Mickey’s hips. _That’s more like it._

“Fine,” Ian grunts, his hands raking up Mickey’s sides as he arches over him, long fingers burying in Mickey’s hair. “Not over,” he adds, and Mickey rolls his eyes at his petty ass husband always needing the last word. 

“Shut up and fuck me.” 

The grip on Mickey’s hair tightens, and that’s a new thing too. Not Ian grabbing his hair during sex, but how long it’s gotten. Mickey’s hair has always grown fast, but it was never much of a problem since he’d always had a guy to go to. But, Mickey had waited too long while enjoying his married life, and Javier, the guy Mickey has known since juvie, had closed up shop a few weeks into the pandemic. Mickey had tried to bribe him with a few nicer trade-offs, guns and party favors mostly, but the other man stayed firm in his answer. Something about his wife being a high risk. Whatever.

“Shit, Mick, getting close,” Ian moans above him. Mickey bites his bottom lip to keep down a whine threatening to escape his throat when Ian yanks him up by his hair, his back colliding with Ian’s chest. The harsh grip keeps Mickey’s neck exposed, and his jaw drops instinctively when Ian gets a hand around his throat, gasping a lungful of air. His moans strain against that large palm pressing against his windpipe, and even though neither one has touched his dick in a hot minute, Mickey feels himself jerk warningly against his stomach.

“Fuck, yeah, come in me,” Mickey chokes, his hands scrambling over Ian’s forearms for support.

When his husband lets go of his hair and gets a grip around his dick, it’s a catalyst. Ian slams his hips against Mickey’s ass a half dozen times, hard enough to send something on the bedside table crashing to the floor, and Mickey’s coming all over Ian’s hand when he feels the slickness of Ian’s own orgasm slide down his inner thigh. 

Mickey can feel Ian’s legs shaking against the backs of his own. He grunts on impact when Ian’s larger body pitches forward until they’re both crashing down into the sheets below. 

They lay there, Ian panting into his neck, and Mickey’s trying not to wheeze under the solid weight of his husband, not ready for him to move off him just yet. He turns his head and peers over his shoulder at Ian, who’s obscured by the longer locks of black hair sticking to Mickey’s forehead and cheek. Ian brushes the hair back behind Mickey’s ear and he smiles goofily at him, kissing the side of his face. “That was good,” he hums, rolling off onto his side.

Mickey hums in agreement, turning his head the other way, to the side facing Ian. His eyes slip closed when he feels long fingers brush at the grown out parts of his hair at his temples. 

“Gonna let me cut it yet?” Ian asks, idly.

“Fuck no,” Mickey answers quickly, his voice a little hoarse, but firm. It’s a topic they’ve been over a few times.

“I don’t think I’d do a bad job. I used to cut Carl’s sometimes, when Fiona was too busy.”

“When?” Mickey asks, cracking a skeptical eye at Ian.

“Um, I don’t know. When he was younger.” 

“Pretty sure I vaguely remember it being short and kinda lopsided,” Mickey snorts. Ian smacks him on the shoulder. 

“Bet I could do a better job now.”

Mickey groans, turning his face into the sheets, his arms coming up to bury his head. “No, Ian.”

“I never knew you were such a diva about your hair,” Ian comments, pulling at one of Mickey’s arms until it comes away, catching Mickey’s eye again.

“I’m not,” Mickey huffs. “Just got a lot of cowlicks and shit. If you don’t cut it right, it looks stupid.”

“Cowlicks?” Ian laughs, glancing over the mop on Mickey’s head. “Is that why you looked like a porcupine when we first met?” 

Mickey shoves at Ian, earning a little “ _oof”_ from him when he bumps the wall.

“Fuck off. Those are strong words from a guy who used to have a bowl cut.”

“I did _not_ have a bowl cut.”

“It was _totally_ a bowl cut.” 

Ian abruptly sits up and dives at Mickey, grabbing him up in his arms while Mickey pushes back against his chest. The coarse hair there slides between his fingers and he yanks at it, earning a yelp from his husband, who then retaliates by shoving his hands into Mickey’s pits. 

“Fucker!” Mickey shrieks. 

They wrestle and curse each other out through grinning mouths. When Mickey gains the upper hand, Ian plays dirty, pulling Mickey into a filthy kiss that he knows will slow him down. Their wrestling devolves into just making out, mumbling playful insults between the dives of their tongues. 

Eventually that slows too until finally they’re back to laying beside each other, legs tangled up in the sheets. Mickey’s starfished on his back, while Ian lays beside him on his side, holding his head up with one hand. Ian’s smirking down at him, stroking his palm over Mickey’s belly.

“So.” Ian starts.

Mickey sighs.

_“So,”_ he repeats. “Even if I mess up, would just shaving it off be the end of the world?”

“You kidding? I have so many fuckin’ scars and craters in my head, I’d look like a walking asteroid.” Mickey scowls at Ian, who shimmies a little closer to Mickey, tracing his hand over Mickey’s chest and shoulder until his fingers are back in Mickey’s sweat damp hair. When his fingertips brush over one of the larger scars hidden just behind his hairline, Mickey doesn’t flinch, but he does tilt his head slightly, smoothly guiding Ian’s hand away.

“You could always wear a hat. Got a box of beanies and shit under the stairs,” Ian suggests, voice going slightly softer. 

Mickey snorts, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “And what? Wear a hat all summer long? Nah. I’m good, man.” Mickey’s face scrunches at the idea. His body isn’t the greatest at regulating his body temperature during the harsher seasons. Always too hot in the summer, too cold in the winter. It made living at the Milkovich house hell sometimes; no one hardly ever paying the gas bill, their A/C units defunct when there was no electricity. 

And having to wear a knit cap in the middle of a humid summer sounds like a nightmare he doesn’t want to realize.

“Why are you so on this anyway? You hate it that much?” Mickey asks, glancing up at Ian’s touch, basically petting him. Ian shakes his head, giving Mickey’s hair a playful tug when he loops a lock around one finger.

“Nah, just figured it was driving you crazy by now.” Ian shrugs. 

He isn't wrong. Mickey’s hair’s grown out enough that it’s toeing the line of the awkward stage. The last time it was close to this length, he hadn’t had much of a choice in the matter. Keeping a low profile while running from the Feds had really put a damper on the more clean cut look he’d been maintaining the last few years. Even so, Mickey still jumped on the first chance he got once everything else fell into place. 

_Even if everything still fell apart,_ Mickey thinks bemusedly. It doesn’t really sting anymore, thinking about parts of the past, it feels like a lifetime ago. They’ve gotten to the point where they can sometimes even joke about it now.

“Whoa,” Ian suddenly pipes up. Mickey’s eyes pop open, having closed when Ian had started idly stroking his hair again. Ian slides himself on top of Mickey, who grunts in annoyance at the added weight on him, long fingers digging through Mickey’s hair in a way that reminds Mickey of a monkey.

“Will you quit that?” Mickey huffs, swatting at Ian’s hands. 

“No way. I’m pretty sure I just... Aha!” Mickey feels a light tug, and his body begins to shake when Ian belly laughs at him.

“What?” Mickey frowns, looking up like he can see what Ian’s doing.

“You have a gray hair here,” Ian explains, amusement coloring his voice.

“Fucking what?” 

“Right here,” Ian says as he prods at Mickey’s temple. Mickey tries to swat at Ian’s hand again agitatedly. 

_“Mickey,”_ Ian breathes, and Mickey’s eyes snap to Ian’s face, who’s looking at him like he’s completely tickled pink. “Are you turning into a silver fox?”

Mickey pushes half heartedly at Ian, who just bears his weight down against him, sinking him further into the mattress. 

“Fuck off, Gallagher, it’s one hair,” Mickey bristles, his face starting to heat under the scrutiny. “I know the geriatric look really gets your engine goin’, but please remain seated.”

Ian snorts at Mickey, ignoring him as he continues to dig around Mickey’s floppy head of hair anyway. And begrudgingly Mickey lets him. 

“Have you ever had one before? Is there _more_ in here?” Ian muses, mostly to himself than Mickey.

“Jesus,” Mickey groans, rubbing a tattooed hand over his face, pressing the pads of his thumb and forefinger into his eyes and massaging his eyelids. “At least when the married sex goes stale, we’ll still have your grandpa fantasy to rely on,” Mickey grumbles, flinching at the sharp tug his wisecrack earns him. “Ouch!”

“Whoops,” Ian sings pitchily, popping the ‘p’. Mickey’s rubbing at the sore spot while Ian brings his hand down, plucking away a few dark hairs and tossing them to the floor until a single strand of silver hair remains between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Great. You gonna put it in a glass case? Show it off to all the house guests as a conversation piece?” 

“Maybe.”

“Good, it’s all yours. Got your name written all over it, since you’re probably the cause of it anyway,” Mickey rants, his hands pushing at Ian’s chest. “Move your heavy ass, I gotta piss.”

Ian slides off of him lazily, and Mickey rolls himself off the bed, daring Ian to comment on the way his body pops as he stretches. Ian’s silent though, and Mickey grabs a pair of maybe clean boxers from the floor, pulling them on. He chances a glance at Ian, who’s stretched out on his back, one arm behind his head. He’s watching Mickey with an annoyingly pleased expression, still holding the strand of hair between his fingers. 

“You’re fucking weird, Gallagher,” Mickey mutters, yanking the accordion door open and quickly making his escape. 

He nearly walks into Carl who’s exiting the bathroom. His brother-in-law glances over the state of Mickey, and grumbles under his breath about soundproofing the walls when he squeezes by. Mickey ignores him, the door slamming shut behind him. 

In the bathroom, Mickey pisses and washes his hands. He looks around for a hand towel to dry his hands on, and breathes out a curse when he finds nothing. Sighing to himself, he glances up at the mirror above the sink. His hair really is long and it’s sticking out in all directions no thanks to Ian, a few bits flopping across his forehead. He pushes his damp hands through his hair, slicking it back, trying to tame the mess, and dries the excess water on the legs of his boxer shorts.

His eyes narrow as he leans closer to the mirror, scrutinizing his hairline, searching for any more hints of silver against black. Satisfied when he finds nothing, he pulls back and rubs at his face tiredly. 

The first time he ever found a gray hair on himself, he was sixteen. Ever since then, one would pop up every so often, and he’d immediately pluck it out, if it was long enough. 

It’s been quite a while since he’d seen one, choosing to keep his hair shorn short at the temples, where they seem to pop up most often. 

It’s not like he’s the type to have some sort of crisis over finding a gray hair. He couldn’t really fucking care less. People get older and he thinks he’s aging gracefully enough despite his stressed as fuck life. He’s only twenty six, after all. It’s the fact that his thoughts seem to wander to Terry, for some fucking reason, the bastard popping up like an uninvited guest, that irks Mickey the most. His skin prickles the way it does every time he comes up. 

Terry’s been gray all Mickey’s life, at least as far back as he can remember. Throughout his childhood, Terry would sneer about how much Mickey (and Mandy) looked like their mother. Mickey couldn’t help but be thankful for such a small mercy, especially since his brothers hadn’t been so lucky. He had fought hard as a kid to be his father’s son, but these days he’s glad he barely got anything from that pug ugly son of a bitch.

Still, every once in a while, on his off days, Mickey looks in the mirror, and can’t help but see traces of Terry staring back at him. 

A harsh breath pushes past his lips and he shoves those thoughts back. He drops his hands from his face and turns away from the sink, rolling his eyes at himself. He can hear a commotion starting beyond the closed door, Franny’s high voice greeting Ian from the bottom of the stairs. He figures he should get dressed and join his husband.

\--

“I don’t understand why it’s so hard,” Tami complains, looking down at Freddie. His huge eyes are staring straight through Mickey, heavy lidded while he sits like dead weight in Tami’s lap, downing a bottle like Mickey downs a beer after a particularly hard day. Mickey wishes he could see the appeal of babies, like Ian does. To him, they’re like noisy sacks of jello with a staring problem. The kid doesn’t even flinch when Mickey tries to stare right back.

“Franny was difficult to wean too, you just have to be patient,” replies Debbie, who’s digging through a few plastic bags sitting on the counter. Apparently Ian finally figured out that getting Mickey to go to the store was a lost cause, so he’d texted Debbie their grocery list instead, with Tami tagging along.

Mickey’s been trying to ignore them since they came in and crashed his breakfast. He’d been enjoying his cereal and coffee in silence. Ian had gone off with Franny and Liam to the park while Debbie went out and shopped, as a compromise. Now he’s starting to wish he hadn’t stayed behind, because listening to this was quickly turning into a cruel and unusual kind of punishment.

“I know, but he’s just so fussy lately. I’m so glad I decided not to breastfeed, you know…”

Mickey closes his eyes and takes in a slow breath. 

Yeah, that’s definitely his cue that he needs to get the fuck out.

He’s just about to get up and leave when the front door swings open. Franny’s barreling inside and making a beeline for the kitchen, Ian and Liam, and Lip, wherever the hell he came from, coming up behind her.

Franny’s jumping excitedly, showing off a fistful of flowers to Debbie. Mickey thinks there’s more weeds than actual flowers in her hand, but he can’t help the ghost of a smile crossing his lips at her enthusiasm. 

The scrape of the chair next to him catches Mickey’s attention, who quickly hones in on his husband dropping himself into the seat beside Mickey. He spots a few green sprigs in Ian’s hair, standing out like a beacon against the red.

“You got grass in your hair,” Mickey points out, nodding at the side of his head. Ian swats at the spot above his ear, sending a few blades of grass sailing through the air, and Mickey’s quick to pull his mug away before they can land in his coffee. 

“Dick,” he mutters, nudging Ian’s side. 

Ian glances at him, then drags his gaze upwards. Mickey sucks in a breath and braces himself for Ian to bring up this morning, knowing that he isn’t going to let the gray incident go just yet. 

“Better than gray hairs, old man,” Ian quips, and Mickey rolls his eyes, giving his husband zero points for creativity.

“Who’s got gray hair?” Mickey hears Lip ask as he sits across from the two of them and he inwardly groans.

“Mick does.”

“One. One single fucking gray hair,” Mickey grouches, sipping his coffee. 

“Rough, buddy. Really going guns out with the quarantine hair too,” Lip remarks, giving Mickey’s head a brief glance over. 

“Not like I really have a fucking choice,” Mickey says, feeling more than a little miffed.

“I can cut it for you,” Tami offers, handing Freddie over to Lip the second he has his hands free. 

“Already got a guy,” Mickey mumbles shortly. If the earlier conversation was anything to go by, spending upwards of an hour having to listen to her bitch and moan about Lip and her kid and whatever else sounds like a particular piece of hell for him. “Just waiting for him to open back up.” 

She shrugs, and Mickey thinks the topic is thankfully over until Liam pipes up. 

“We started talking about symbolism in my English class today. Apparently hair is used a lot in books to signify a lot of stuff,” Liam says, looking only a little surprised when the room’s attention turns to him. The youngest brother averts his gaze to the jar of peanut butter Debbie’s left on the counter, pulling out the half bag of bread from it’s haphazard place next to the toaster.

“Like what?” Ian asks, and Mickey wants to kick his chair out from under him.

“Like the color of someone’s hair can have a certain meaning,” Liam explains after a pause, starting his toast. “Cutting one’s own can symbolize a release or moving on from an event or person,” he continues on, looking so serious he reminds Mickey of a professor lecturing a class of students.

“Sometimes it can be used as a status symbol, like with samurai,” Lip says, giving his two cents.

“There was an example in class where a character had it cut off by force, and my teacher said it symbolized castration,” Liam says. Mickey sees from the corner of his eye Ian make a face at that, and his own reaction isn’t far off. 

“The fuck? This is the shit being funded by my tax money?” Mickey says around a spoonful of his cereal, which has gone unappetizingly soggy.

“You pay taxes, Mick?” Lip asks dryly. 

Mickey flips him off, and chooses to ignore the rest of the conversation, writing off another Gallagher style morning. 

\--

The next day, Mickey borrows Debbie’s truck to pick up Sandy. 

He’s got errands to run anyway, since Debbie had apparently skipped over an entire portion of Ian’s List of Shit. Mickey hadn’t even bothered to fight his husband this time, because Ian had gotten it into his head that they needed to start job hunting, and if Ian made him look at one more craigslist ad for some shitty retail job, Mickey’s eyes were gonna start bleeding. 

So Mickey left him to it, and he had barely made it down the street before Sandy had texted him, asking for a ride. 

Mickey pulls up onto the curb outside the Milkovich house and sneers at the state of it. If he wasn’t so thoroughly familiar with the house, he’d assume it was just another condemned building on the block. 

Most of the windows of the house are boarded up, the stairs look like they are barely holding together, and the trash in the yard is piling up so high, it’s beginning to make the chain link fence warp over the sidewalk. It wasn’t a Barbie dream house when Mickey had lived in it, but it had never looked this bad before. He wonders who the fuck Terry has living in there now, besides himself. Thankfully, Sandy had told Mickey days ago that Terry was out of town on some business, moving guns, or drugs, or whatever the fuck he could get his hands on.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when the front door slams open, and Sandy’s hauling ass down the steps, the porch shaking under the movement so unsettlingly, Mickey wonders how she doesn’t fall right through them. Mickey isn’t sure her feet even hit the pavement before she’s yanking the truck’s door open, jumping inside. 

“The fuck’s the fire?” Mickey asks grumpily, though her harried state makes his stomach drop and his grip on the steering wheel tighten.

“He just showed up here like five minutes ago. I texted you to park down the street. I’m guessing you didn’t see my texts,” Sandy explains as she clicks her seatbelt into place. 

He hadn’t even heard his phone go off in his pocket. 

Mickey scowls up at the house, his hand reaching for the gear shift. 

“I thought you said he was going to be out of town for a while,” Mickey says sharply, putting the truck in drive a little too roughly. 

“He was, but then he just showed up today because apparently things went better than expected, and--shit,” Sandy curses, and Mickey can tell without looking by the way Sandy’s voice hitches, that Terry’s there.

Mickey can feel the eyes on him before he even has to look up, and when he does his stomach twists hard enough it nearly makes him wince. Terry’s sneering at them on the steps, his arms crossed over his chest. _Speak of the fucking devil,_ he thinks _._

He’s not terrified of his father, not anymore, and hasn’t been since he was a teenager, but he still gets that first initial gut reaction to run when he finds himself in Terry’s sights. Mickey hates himself a little for it.

“Well, look at what we have here,” Mickey hears Terry shout from the steps, the nails of the boards shrieking under Terry’s heavy weight as he descends them. 

“Looks like the fag parade is starting early this year,” Terry continues, gesturing towards them theatrically.

Sandy rolls her eyes towards the roof of the truck, shaking her head. “Fuck this, let’s just go.”

Mickey’s grip tightens on the steering wheel, though he keeps a firm foot on the brake.

“Gonna come out here and say hello, or are your lips glued shut from all the spunk?” Terry heckles from the sidewalk. He’s not gonna take the bait. _He’s not, he’s not, he’s not, he’s..._

Mickey’s jaw clenches, shoving the gear shift into park again. 

_“Mickey,”_ Sandy hisses beside him, but Mickey’s yanking the door open before he can even think, stepping out of the truck. He slams it shut behind him, rounding the front, and he can see Sandy from the corner of his eye, gesturing wildly in the universal sign of _what the fuck are you doing?_

Mickey ignores her though, stopping a few feet from Terry. 

As a kid, Terry seemed like a monstrous presence to Mickey. Tall, and wide and solid. He had never felt so small than when he was near his father, completely eclipsed under his overwhelming shadow. When Terry walked into a room, it felt like he took up most of it, and Mickey had to stand with his back pressed to the walls to keep from getting cut on his father’s edge. 

Terry had made sure to ingrain that deep fear in all his children, and Mickey can’t remember a single moment in his life that involved his father that wasn’t distorted by it. Most days, he couldn’t even look Terry in the eyes.

Now, though. Now, things are different. The hold on him his father had, has crumbled to almost nothing. Mickey can live his life without looking over his shoulder every minute, without the knee-jerk reaction of worrying what his father would do to him. 

It’s almost funny, Mickey thinks. He and Terry are the same height now, meeting at the eyes. Except Terry stands hunched, leaning slightly to one side like he can’t hold himself up properly without overcorrecting, his shoulders pointed in. He almost seems small, like he’s a boulder under a constant stream, eroding.

“Mornin’ pops,” Mickey greets sourly, hiding the edge beneath a lazy drawl. He’s not afraid of Terry as a man, but he isn’t stupid enough to let his guard down around him. 

Behind him, he hears Sandy rolling down the window, hissing his name again.

“I see you’re still in one piece. It’s too bad, I’m sure you and that little boyfriend of yours could’ve gotten creative with the extra holes.” Terry’s lip lifts in a smile, but it’s anything but kind. “Unless he wasn’t so lucky.” 

“God, fuck off Terry,” Mickey hears Sandy sigh.

Mickey wants to deck that look off Terry’s face for even mentioning Ian. Instead, he shifts his weight, shoulders slack, though his hands stay clenched at his sides. The nail of his thumb presses into the side of his forefinger, scratching back and forth.

“Husband, actually. And no, he’s doing great, actually we both are.” Mickey shrugs. “Been real busy queering up the south side.”

Mickey feels a little twinge of satisfaction watching the smile drop from Terry’s face. 

“You’ll both be eating fucking pavement before that ever fucking happens.” Terry spits at him, landing at Mickey’s feet. “Fucking cock gobblers.”

Mickey doesn’t move, but he raises a mocking brow at Terry, keeping his posture loose. 

Mickey isn’t stupid, but he’s impulsive. He keeps his gaze trained on every move his father makes. A few months ago, he was so sure that Terry would never seriously shoot him, even as he waved a gun in Mickey’s face. He isn’t willing to bet on it, now.

“What the fuck ever, man. You must be tired, losing so much sleep over where I put my dick,” Mickey snorts, unamused.

Then, to really drive it home, “You sure you ain’t gay? Got a lot of practice under my belt. Could give you some pointers,” Mickey cracks, and he knows it’s the wrong thing to say, knows he should’ve just shut his fucking mouth, but Mickey’s aggravation gets the better of him as usual, and he can’t help but let his mouth run. 

The click of the gun is sharp, and Mickey’s spine straightens with it. He can hear the blood in his ears as Terry aims his glock at him. Mickey’s fingers twitch, reflexively grabbing for his own gun, only he had come unarmed like a goddamn idiot. A stupid ass mistake. He thinks maybe being around the Gallaghers is making him soft.

He can see Ian’s face so clearly, that pinched look he gets when Mickey does something particularly stupid. 

“The fuck you gonna do, Terry? Shoot him in broad daylight?” Sandy yells from the open window angrily. Mickey’s still frozen, but he can’t help but be a little proud of himself as he keeps his stare on Terry’s, never wavering once. It’s short lived though, when Terry shifts and doubles down, finger on the trigger. He aims straight at Mickey’s head.

“No one around here would say a fuckin’ word if I did,” Terry shouts back at Sandy, but keeps his eyes on Mickey’s. “I’d be doing them a favor, just one more faggot to bury,” he sneers quieter, but no less seething, to Mickey this time. 

Something inside him shivers at the deep and wild hatred in the stare Terry has aimed at him. It feels more frightening than the gun. It makes his thoughts race. 

First he thinks of Ian, who would never forgive him if he got his ass laid out in the middle of the street, by Terry of all fucking people. He’d probably figure out a way to resurrect him, only to kill Mickey himself.

And then, weirdly enough, he thinks of Yevgeny. 

He hasn’t thought about Yev in years, but while Mickey is staring down the barrel of a gun, the kid is at the forefront of his mind. Even after everything--all the fucked up shit that the kid had been a product of, all the misdirected animosity Mickey had felt toward him the moment Svetlana had brought that baby home, Mickey had never once looked at his son the way Terry is looking at him now. 

A tiny piece of Mickey, an innocent flicker that he’s buried deep, deep down, wonders what he did so fucking wrong.

A shot rings out, echoing around the block. His body lurches reflexively, a startled scream ripping from his throat as the blast echoes around them, then fading. He immediately grabs at his chest in panic, the ghost of an ache under his hand. But where he expects it to come back bloody, his palm is just clammy with sweat, and his head whips around in surprise, to see Sandy standing next to the truck with the door wide open, aiming a pistol at the sky. 

“I’m over you melodramatic assholes, lets wrap this the fuck up,” she shouts, readying the gun in her hand. “That was a warning shot.”

Mickey is still hunched forward, glancing between Terry, who’s standing in a daze, and Sandy. She’s glaring between the two of them, and Mickey doesn’t think Sandy has ever shot a gun outside of practicing on empty beer cans in a backyard, but he knows she’s giving him the out he needs, before this escalates further. Even on the south side, someone’s gonna come investigate. 

Maybe there’s one upside of gentrification, and that’s nosy neighbors with 911 on speed dial. 

His feet hit the pavement, running around the front of the truck and jumping into the driver’s seat. Mickey can hear Terry screaming at them, but the ringing in his ears is too loud to make out the words beyond a few choice slurs. Sandy’s back in the passenger seat, and Mickey barely waits for the door to close before he’s speeding off, tires screeching on the black top. More shots ring out, and this time they’re from Terry himself. Mickey thinks he hears one of the truck's tail lights shatter. Sandy shouts and ducks. 

“Fuck off and die, Terry!” He shouts, raising his hand out the window as he flips him off.

Mickey doesn’t slow down until the figure of Terry standing on the sidewalk is gone from his rearview mirror. 

He’s suddenly aware of how hard he’s breathing, the ache in his chest he thought was a gunshot wound just the burn of his lungs trying to catch his breath. 

He glances over at Sandy when he hears her whisper a curse under her breath. Her hands are shaking, still holding onto the gun in an iron grip.

“Give me that.” He reaches over and takes it from her, turning the safety on the 9mm. He tosses it behind the driver’s seat. They’re both breathing hard, and the silence is long and tense between them as Mickey drives through the familiar streets on autopilot. 

On one particular turn, Mickey hears a strangled laugh cut through the silence between them, and it takes a minute for him to realize it’s him. He reaches up and rubs his hand against his mouth. He’s grinning, but it feels ugly.

_"Fuck.”_

And the single curse is enough to put a crack in the dam. 

Mickey nearly swerves onto a crowded sidewalk when a fist collides with his shoulder, and then another. He’s nearly being pummeled, Sandy’s right hook connecting like a sack of bricks. Mickey manages to barely gain control of the truck as he blocks her with his other arm.

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?” Sandy wails, punching him again. 

“What? The fuck is wrong with _you_? Fuck,” Mickey spits out, trying to deflect her fists. “Stop hitting me, bitch!”

“Why did you taunt him like that? Do you want to die?” Sandy snaps, her eyes wide and wild.

“Fucking of course not,” Mickey snaps back, shoving her back into her seat. Thankfully, she keeps from lunging at him again. She stares at Mickey, waiting for some kind of answer.

“I just…” Mickey trails. His shoulders droop, the muscles of his body aching with how tightly wound he is. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, Mickey’s hands are starting to shake, which he hides by gripping the steering wheel hard enough to make his knuckles go white.

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” Sandy shoots at him, tone snippy as her lip trembles. 

“Not with Terry and his big fucking mouth, no,” Mickey snips back, feeling so worn out suddenly, but he can feel his heart still racing, trying to beat out of his rib cage. 

There are just certain things that pull out a very defensive and rotten part of Mickey. And when he gets defensive, he gets belligerent. To a lighter extent, Ian can do it, when he gets pushy and doesn’t know when to stop, shoving and prodding at the sore spots until Mickey feels like a caged animal. Until his ability to reason shuts down and his reptilian brain takes over, always choosing fight in the _fight or flight_ scenario; because fleeing makes you a pussy. It hasn’t happened in a long time, though, getting to the point where Mickey feels like he has no choice but to lash out at Ian physically. And with Ian it’s a fight to escape and cool off, it’s never felt like a method for survival, like with Terry.

The flipped switch between the parts that make us human and the animal brain is broken in Terry, Mickey thinks. He’s fueled by pure spite and instinct, and somehow it’s kept him alive only to ensure he makes every waking moment of Mickey’s life miserable. 

Mickey’s jaw clenches so hard, his molars threaten to crack when he pictures that hateful sneer in his mind’s eye. Mickey has his moments, he’ll always have his moments, but he’ll never be like _that_. There are parts of him that have remained tender and pliable, even if it took him years to expose that soft underbelly to anyone. Mickey knows now that his sensitive nature isn’t a weakness in him, it’s helped him love and open up to Ian in such a deep and intense way, Mickey couldn’t picture his life without it. But living under Terry’s thumb throughout his teenage years isn’t without it’s hang-ups, and Mickey will probably spend his entire life digging out the cancer deep in the marrow. 

Mickey blinks back to reality when the back of a hand swats at his sore arm. 

“Hey, are you listening to me?” Sandy snaps, eyeing Mickey warily. She’s at least calmed down a little bit.

“No,” Mickey admits candidly, pressing the pad of his thumb into his eye socket. He can feel a migraine brewing behind it. 

“Well, clean the shit out of your ears, dickbag,” Sandy huffs. Her voice doesn’t have that trembling undercurrent anymore, instead she has a determined look to her that Mickey isn’t sure he likes. Mickey sighs, staring out the windshield. The Gallagher house pops into view, and he pulls up half onto the sidewalk. He hadn’t planned on going home right off, but his hands and feet instinctively lead him there. The truck screeches to a halt and Mickey winces. His migraine worsens. 

“ _Mickey,”_ Sandy yells in his ear suddenly. He sits up hard enough to shake the seat when his back collides with the soft material, and he throws his hands up hysterically. 

“Holy fuck, _what,_ Sandy,” Mickey growls, hunching inward. The cab of the truck is feeling more claustrophobic by the second. He feels sweat gather at his temples and under his armpits. His cut up plaid shirt is sticking to his back uncomfortably.

“Fucking chill, Mick,” Sandy hisses. Mickey’s still holding his hands up, fingers splayed wide in front of him, and he realizes they’re shaking again. Quickly he drops them into his lap, balling them into fists. “I’ve been trying to talk to you this entire time, and you look like you’re a thousand miles away.”

Sandy’s voice softens, maybe meant to be comforting, but Mickey bristles at it.

“You got my attention now, so spit it the fuck out.”

“I was asking what your plan is about Terry.”

Mickey’s brows pinch together as he makes a face at that. “A plan for what?”

“Are you suddenly fucking deaf? He was screaming threats when you were hauling ass away from the house,” Sandy explains, looking at Mickey like he’s soft in the head. 

And maybe his higher brain functions have finally thrown in the towel, because if Sandy is trying to make some kind of point, Mickey’s not getting it. 

“So fucking what? That’s nothing new.” Mickey doesn’t have enough fingers or toes to count the threats Terry’s made against him.

“He said he was going to come here and light this place the fuck up! You’re not the only one with someone to protect, you know, you selfish prick. Kids live here.” Sandy blisters, punching Mickey in the same spot for the third time as she points toward the house.

“He’s not gonna come here,” Mickey tries, words heavy on his tongue. It feels like a lie.

“He was two seconds from painting the sidewalk with your brains, Mickey,” Sandy counters. She looks as exhausted as Mickey feels.

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes. He knows she’s right. His body knows, still shaking with adrenaline, even when his brain doesn’t want to believe it. 

“Fuck, I know,” he says softly, wetting his lips anxiously.

“We gotta think of something.”

Mickey takes in a breath. Clearly Sandy’s been hanging around the Gallagher house too long if she thinks that everything needs to be treated like a twelve-step project. He opens his mouth to tell her so, but he stops in his tracks, catching sight of red hair and movement on the Gallagher porch. It’s Debbie, who’s leaning over and waving a hand, trying to catch their attention through the window. 

“Shit, get out,” Mickey mutters, pushing at Sandy. She pushes back, grouching out a _“what the fuck”_ at the sudden change of direction. Mickey catches her eye and nods to the porch, and Sandy deflates when she sees Debbie. Mickey doesn’t need anyone getting suspicious right now. Obviously Sandy thinks the same as she fakes a smile and waves back, muttering a string of curses under her breath for only Mickey to hear. 

“I’ll deal with her and then we’re gonna talk about this,” Sandy says as she pops open the door and hops out. She turns to shut it, pausing when she notices that Mickey hasn’t moved. “Are you coming?”

Mickey chews at his bottom lip as he stares out the windshield, shaking his head slowly. 

“No,” he mutters, releasing his lip when he can taste blood on the tip of his tongue. “Gotta go do some shit,” he adds, but his thoughts couldn’t be further from running his original errands. 

“Mickey, whatever you’re thinking, we gotta make a plan together,” Sandy starts, her voice a little too loud for Mickey’s liking. Debbie calls Sandy’s name from the front door. Mickey hisses at Sandy to be quiet.

“Think of a stupid fucking plan then, and we’ll go over it later. Fuckin’ _go_ ,” Mickey snaps as he glances at Debbie, who’s looking at them, face twisted in confusion. 

He reaches over the center console and grabs the passenger door handle, pausing. 

“And don’t you dare breathe a word about Terry, to fucking Ian or Debbie or anyone. They get wind of this right now, and it’s gonna turn into a shit show.”

Mickey yanks the door and slams it shut. The whole truck shakes as he pulls off the curb. He ignores Debbie screaming at him from the steps for being rough with her truck, revving the engine as he peels out down the street.

\--

Ian’s been texting Mickey for the last hour. Apparently he and Sandy can’t act like normal people for two fucking seconds, because Debbie had immediately caught on to something being wrong. Sandy texted him, letting him know that she had to tell Debbie something, so she’d mentioned that they’d run into Terry, but not giving many details. And word travels like the plague in that house, so of course Ian’s going to take that and run with it, attempting to be the most annoying motherfucker alive as he sends text after text.

His phone chimes twice more, and Mickey groans. “Give it a fucking rest Gallagher.”

He takes his phone out and puts it on silent, thumb scrolling through the row of unread messages. He’s not purposely trying to scare Ian by ignoring him. It’s important that he’s keeping a look out, though, and he doesn’t want to get distracted. He puts his phone into his back pocket quickly, not wanting to call attention to himself with the light coming off the phone screen. It’s getting dark out, and the shadows under the bridge hide his crouched form almost completely. When his knees start to ache, he stands, his back against the cold concrete pillar. He chain smokes all the while. 

Fifteen more minutes passes by, until Mickey catches a figure slowly walking his way, hood up with their hands in the pockets, a black duffle bag hanging off one shoulder. 

Mickey’s cashing in a favor, and he doesn’t miss a step as he goes through the motions. 

“Evenin’,” Mickey greets politely, but he’s met with silence in return. He doesn’t take offense, instead he pulls the neat wad of bills out from his jacket, obscuring it in his palm as best he can, handing it over. He watches the silent guy’s hands, briefly flicking the edge of his thumb through the dollar bills. Satisfied, he pushes the duffle bag into Mickey’s chest. It’s heavy and nearly knocks him back, but by the feel of it, it’s exactly what Mickey needs. 

Mickey hoists it over his shoulder and he starts to walk backwards, giving enough space between them until he feels safe enough to turn his back. 

“Give Enzo my love,” Mickey calls, waving goodbye as he heads back to the truck.

\--

Mickey pulls up to the Gallagher house for the second time that day. He had called in another small favor, and Mickey had ditched the duffle bag in a safe location, taking what he could hide in the inner pockets of his jacket. It’s on the edge of a little too warm to wear a coat obviously meant for winter, but it’s all he could find on short notice, raiding an overflowing Salvation Army drop off spot on the edge of town. The jacket smells a little off, and fuck knows what else it’s got on it, but Mickey plans to ditch it once he can hide his guns where he needs to, and take a long ass shower. 

He hopes he can at least get the first step done without being under the scrutiny of his husband. Ian had made Mickey promise to get rid of his guns after their wedding. Apparently Ian wasn’t impressed with the show Mickey had put on when he was hell-bent on going after Terry once they found out about the Bamboo Lotus. He had called him trigger happy and nagged his ass every day until Mickey packed up his guns and “gave them away.” What Ian doesn’t know won’t hurt him though, because not all of Mickey’s weapons were divided out for cash. Some he had just lent out as a favor.

The jacket is heavy on him, but somehow it’s a comforting weight. Guns will always be a controversial subject, but they’ve always made him feel safe at least. 

Mickey grasps the door knob, ready to pull off the band aid. 

The door clicks behind him and Mickey’s immediately hit with the sound of the tv blasting in the living room. He peeks around the entry way into the other room, spotting Franny sitting alone on the couch, eyes glued to the screen in front of her. Mickey thinks he can make it upstairs without being seen, slipping his boots off by the door and trying his best to walk quietly toward the staircase. Franny must have some sort of homing device on him, though, because before he can make it to the first step, she pulls an exorcist move, head whipping almost all the way around, her eyes wide with excitement. 

“Uncle Mickey!” She shrieks. Mickey hides his wince under what he hopes is a convincing smile.

“Hey, kid,” he greets back. And maybe he should be comforted by the fact that he would’ve been fucked whether he managed to sneak by or not, when he hears the accordion door snap open upstairs. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Ian barks at the top of the stairs, face thunderous. 

It’s then Mickey realizes he forgot to text Ian back. 

Guilt blossoms in his chest like a flower, but he ignores it. 

“Sorry, man. I meant to text you back but my phone died before I had a chance,” Mickey lies, dodging the question. He slowly makes his way up the stairs, making sure his jacket doesn’t bump into him as he carefully passes by Ian. He steps into their bedroom, and Ian’s not far behind. 

“Okay, well, I’m glad you’re home,” Ian starts, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed, watching Mickey. “Where did you go though?”

Mickey’s floundering internally. He has to hide the guns and make up an alibi, all while Ian watches him like a hawk. He tries to keep his cool, shrugging the jacket off and quickly bunching it up in his arms, before the weird weight of it becomes obvious. 

“I went to run errands,” Mickey shrugs. Ian raises a skeptical eyebrow. 

“I didn’t see any Costco bags when you came in,” Ian counters. “Must have forgot them in the truck,” he adds, dryly, clearly seeing through Mickey’s bullshit. 

Mickey curses internally. He scratches at his hair which flops in his face, and turns with his back to Ian, making it easier to talk without having to look at his husband. “What’s with the third degree?” He questions grumpily, finally finding an empty spot on one of the shelves, shoving the jacket into it. He hears Ian’s incredulous snort behind him.

“Mickey you’ve been gone all day,” Ian complains, and Mickey tries not to tense when he hears Ian coming up behind him. “Debbie said it looked like you and Sandy were fighting when you dropped her off, and Sandy told Debbie that you guys had seen Terry. The hell is that about? Are you working for him again?” Ian asks, the hurt clear in his voice. Ian expects him to never go back to his father, and Mickey knows this because he had told him as much. 

“I’m not working for Terry,” Mickey says, turning to meet Ian’s eyes again. At least this is something that Mickey doesn’t have to lie about. 

“Okay, so…”

Mickey scratches at his hair again, hoping to fuck it’s just nerves and not lice from that fucking jacket. 

“So? He was there when I picked up Sandy, and he ran his fucking mouth as usual, end of fucking story,” Mickey explains, voice low to soften the harsh words, trying to placate Ian. He sees Ian frown, shifting on his feet like he’s weighing the truth of Mickey’s words. God, Mickey fucking hates that Ian has to doubt him. Hates that he’s right to. 

“Okay,” Ian finally sighs, dropping his arms to his sides. He closes the distance between them in a few short strides, slipping his arms around Mickey’s shoulders. “Missed you,” Ian mumbles into his neck, breathing him in.

“Missed you too,” Mickey replies, his hands rubbing along Ian’s ribs soothingly. They both stand for a minute, taking each other in like they both need it.

“You smell funny,” Ian comments suddenly, muffled against Mickey’s skin. 

“Gee, thanks,” Mickey laughs, gently shoving Ian off. 

“I think it’s that jacket. Where the hell’d you get that ugly thing anyway?” Ian asks, glancing at the solid patches of dark blue and green bunched up on the shelf. Mickey feels his blood pressure rising when the attention is on the jacket again. _Can’t I just have one thing go smoothly, today?_ Mickey thinks, exhaustedly. 

It’s very obviously not Mickey’s style, so he can’t tell Ian it’s his. 

“Dunno, it was in Debbie’s car. I went for a walk and thought it would be colder out, so I took it,” Mickey shrugs. 

“And you’re keeping it in here…” Ian trails, looking at Mickey for an answer.

“Maybe I wanna wear it for you,” Mickey tries, and Ian raises an eyebrow at him. He raises a higher one back. “You know, wear the jacket and nothing else. Make it kinda sexy,” he grins, wiggling his brows. That earns him a laugh, and Mickey feels his heart flutter at it. 

“Whatever you say,” Ian snorts, eyeing Mickey. He reaches out, grabbing him by the red plaid shirt, and pulls Mickey’s body against his own. “Though I think you look sexiest with no clothes at all.” 

Mickey’s face lights up at that, his hands bunching the hem of Ian’s shirt while their bodies slowly start to sway against each other. Oh yeah, this he can work with.

“That so?” Mickey asks, hushed, voice dropping down an octave like it does when he’s turned on. He watches Ian’s eyelids lower, giving him bedroom eyes. _Bingo._

“That’s so,” Ian hums, the tip of his nose bumping into Mickey’s. He can feel Ian’s breath on his mouth, and when he licks his lips, his tongue just barely grazes his husband’s. Ian’s quick to seal their lips together, breathing in sharply as strong arms wind around Mickey’s back. Mickey’s hands find Ian’s short curls, blunt fingertips dragging over his scalp and nape, holding his head there while they kiss fervently. They’re still swaying, and Mickey’s slowly losing himself in the kiss. He doesn’t even notice when they bump into something, the floor vibrating when a heavy weight hits the floor near their feet.

“What was that?” Ian asks against Mickey’s mouth. 

“Who cares,” Mickey replies breathlessly, the hand on Ian’s neck tugging him back in. 

His lips meet the stubbly side of Ian’s face, though, and Mickey snaps his eyes open to look at Ian’s who’s staring at the floor. Mickey follows his gaze and his stomach drops when he sees the jacket on the floor, the butt of a gun sticking out of one pocket. 

_Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…._ Mickey groans internally.

“What the fuck?” Ian asks sharply, pushing Mickey back so he can grab the jacket off the floor, catching the exposed gun before it falls out of the inner pocket. “What the fuck is this?” Ian hisses, holding the gun in his hand, gesturing the side of it toward Mickey. 

“Fuck me,” Mickey breathes out heavily, pressing his hands to his face and rubbing hard. 

“Mickey, what the fuck?” Ian questions again, and Mickey wonders what he could have possibly done in a past life that made sure he'd never know peace in this one. 

“It’s a gun,” Mickey says, starting with stating the obvious. Ian isn’t amused.

“Yeah, I can see that. _Why_ do you have a gun?” 

Mickey drops his hands, face reddened where he had been rubbing at it. They stare at each other, and then suddenly they’re yelling over each other.

“Okay, listen here pissy pants, you can’t just expect me to get rid of my guns just because you don’t like them--”

“Fuck you, that’s not why I--”

“And you can lecture me all you want--”

“It’s not safe to just have guns hidden in the house where anyone can find--”

“And I’m allowed to have things--”

“Not to mention we’re _felons--_ ”

“And it’s for your own good, okay, ‘cause I need to keep my family _safe--_ ”

“Safe from _what_?” Ian barks loudly, throwing the jacket onto the bed, the gun landing on top of it. He crowds Mickey against the wall, nostrils flaring in anger while they stare each other down. 

Mickey’s jaw snaps shut. He's quickly losing his momentum. Ian’s eyes bore into his, and Mickey can feel himself caving in. Ian must see it, because when he speaks, his voice is hushed. 

“Safe from _what?”_ He asks again. Mickey tries to hold on to whatever backbone he still has left with Ian, but it quickly crumbles too at the gentle, concerned way Ian is looking at him now. It makes his heart feel like it’s being squeezed. 

Mickey’s hands come up to rest on Ian’s ribs, his thumbs petting at the lean muscle through the fabric.

“Fucking Terry,” Mickey admits, blowing out a slow breath. Ian’s eyebrows knit together, puzzled.

“We haven’t seen shit from Terry since the day after our wedding,” Ian comments, trying to work it out. “Until, I guess, today… the fuck did he say to you to get you this wound up?” Ian asks, and Mickey can see a little bit of amusement dancing in his eyes. He’s probably expecting the same old Terry brand of insults and slurs, expecting Mickey to give his overly embellished personal account of the story, about how much of an asshole Terry is. 

Mickey doesn’t blame him for it. Ian knows how much of a monster he can be, but Mickey’s seen more of what he can do than he could ever tell Ian. Apparently his face says as much, because Ian’s amusement slips away to something more apprehensive. Mickey sighs heavily, his fingers curling into Ian’s shirt.

“Called me a bunch of shit,” he starts, and Ian nods along, expecting as much. “Pulled a gun on me, scared the shit out of Sandy.” _And me,_ Mickey thinks.

The groove in Ian’s forehead deepens. “I mean, pulling a gun on you is fucked up, but he’s done that stupid shit before right? As a scare tactic?” 

“ _Yeah_ … I don’t think it was a threat this time.” His stomach twists when he admits it out loud. Ian’s eyebrows rise to his hairline. 

“Serious?” Ian asks softly. Mickey leans into his husband’s touch when Ian presses his hand to the side of face, cradling Mickey’s jaw in his palm. 

“I don’t know what the fuck happened. I know he’s a hateful fucking prick but,” Mickey shrugs, his lips pressing together. His voice sounds hoarse even to him when he speaks. “I really thought he was gonna put a bullet in my head, Ian.”

Ian looks a little sick, his eyes bouncing between Mickey’s. Mickey hates that look, hates that his shit is the reason for it. 

“You’re okay,” Ian whispers, both of his hands coming up to hold Mickey’s face. 

Mickey rolls his eyes, tearing his gaze away from Ian’s. He can’t look at him when Ian sounds like that. “‘Course I am,” he mutters, swallowing around the growing lump in his throat. 

“You’re okay,” Ian repeats, his thumbs tracing the curves of Mickey’s ears while he pecks soft kisses to the corner of Mickey’s mouth, the side of his nose, the edge of his hairline. Mickey inhales shakily, and holds onto Ian like he’s the only thing keeping him upright. “You’re right where you belong.”

“You’re really sappy, Gallagher,” Mickey croaks under the affection. It always puts him at odds, internally. Wanting to lean into it, wanting to squirm away from it.

“Yeah, well,” Ian clicks his tongue, pulling back slightly, their noses brushing together. “My husband just told me that his ‘errands’ nearly put him in a body bag, while I was here waiting for his ass to come home with the milk and eggs.”

Mickey winces.

“He’s definitely getting his ass kicked for it later, don’t worry,” Ian adds, his hands squeezing Mickey’s face slightly, letting him know that yeah, that’s definitely not a threat, but a promise. 

“Okay…” Mickey frowns, eyeing Ian. 

“But right now, all I can think about is even faced with something like that, his first thought was how he was gonna protect his _family_ ,” Ian continues, giving Mickey a significant look. The large hands cradling his head slide downward, swallowing his neck as they rest at the sides, just holding him. Mickey isn’t sure why it does it, but the touch pulls down his guard a little. 

“I think he’s had a rough day,” Ian hums, watching the way Mickey slackens under his touch. “I think maybe he needs to catch a break.”

“I think he needs his husband to quit talking like a fucking weirdo, and get these clothes off,” Mickey retorts, grinning up at Ian. His face feels tight, like it’s the first real smile he’s had all day. 

“I think he’s right,” Ian quips, one last time, pulling Mickey forward by the neck until their lips press in an open and hungry kiss. 

They shed their clothes, and Mickey even lets Ian pull his off slowly, piece by piece, his lips kissing Mickey’s exposed skin each time a layer falls away. He even ducks when he pushes Mickey’s boxers to the floor, sucking a kiss to the side of Mickey’s navel. The wet touch of Ian’s lips punches a breath out of Mickey, who nearly turns to putty in Ian’s hands when his husband crouches and gets his mouth on Mickey’s cock. 

“Fuck, Ian,” Mickey moans, nails scratching along Ian’s short locks and caressing the back of his head. Ian sucks him down, large hands keeping Mickey’s hips still, as the muscles flex and quiver under his palms. Ian bobs his head a few more times, eyes closed as he concentrates on keeping a maddeningly slow rhythm, drawing those long breaths out of Mickey each time Ian’s lips meet the base of his dick. Ian pulls back, giving Mickey a gentle, affirming squeeze before he stands, towering back over him. Mickey reaches up and wastes no time getting his mouth on Ian’s again, his tongue greedily curling to taste himself on him.

Ian walks them backwards to the bed, and Mickey pulls out of their kiss with a wet smack. He leans away from Ian as he grabs up the discarded jacket, sending both the jacket and the gun sailing to the floor at the foot of the bed. 

Ian looks like he’s about to protest, but Mickey’s on him again, tattooed fingers taking Ian’s dick, just teasing as he uses his forefinger and thumb to run along the rigid flesh. 

“I’ll take care of it later, promise,” Mickey mutters, curling the rest of his fingers around Ian to shut down any further protests. He needs this. He doesn’t want to think about anything but getting off with the man he’s been with since they were teenagers.

Ian’s manhandling him into the bed before Mickey knows it. Ian’s taller, built a little bit wider, and Mickey thinks that the way Ian covers him completely like this will never get old. Mickey hates feeling small. He’s always been a little shorter than average, and maybe it’s given him a little bit of a complex, his larger personality making up the difference. But when he’s like this, with Ian, he doesn’t feel like he needs to overcompensate. He doesn’t feel like Ian’s trying to overpower him, take more than Mickey’s willing to give. He feels like Ian’s just a piece of him locking into place; like they’re a piece of each other. 

Mickey’s fingers cling to the muscles of Ian back when he pops open the bottle of lube, burying his face into Ian’s neck before his husband has to pull away to see what he’s doing. They’ve done this a thousand times, and Mickey thinks he could do this a thousand more when Ian slips a stick finger into him. 

“‘Nother one,” Mickey mutters, pushing down against Ian’s palm. He feels the stretch when Ian adds another, but it still isn’t enough, and Mickey’s feeling a little too impatient for it. He reaches between his thighs and grips Ian’s wrist, pulling his hand away. Ian looks at Mickey questioningly, but Mickey’s already grabbing the lube from the sheets, reaching a slick hand to wrap around Ian’s cock. Ian bites back a curse at the touch, dipping his head down to rest his forehead against Mickey’s shoulder, watching Mickey’s hand between the gap of their bodies. 

Ian squeezes his eyes shut and moans open mouthed against the tattoo on Mickey’s chest, bucking into his grip when Mickey squeezes him around the base of his cock. 

“Fuck, Mick, you sure?” Ian asks, always the worrier. 

Mickey shoves at Ian’s chest, keeping his movements quick and decisive before Ian can even entertain the idea of slowing down or stopping him. He pushes at Ian until his back is against the wall by the window, and Mickey settles in his lap. “We’ve done worse.”

“Mickey--”

“Quit with the yammering, babyface. Just wanna feel you,” Mickey pants, wanting to plead with Ian to just get in him already. Ian kisses his lips, his chin, whispering a soft “okay,” into the corner of Mickey’s mouth. 

And it took Mickey years to let himself go with Ian. Whenever he tried to make sex more than a fast and dirty fuck, Mickey would get impatient and rough until Ian gave in and gave it back, or just push Ian away completely when he wouldn’t. And Mickey’s still not great at it, and more times than not, it doesn’t fit the mood. He’s not even sure that something slow is what he wants now, while Ian is running his hands gently along his spine and over the curve of his ass. Mickey sinks himself down, the stretch of Ian’s cock inside him pushing the breath from his lungs. 

“Hey, you’re shaking,” Ian mutters, concern coloring his breathless voice.

“Feels good.” Mickey grunts, his hands pushing up from Ian’s shoulders, fists pressing against the barren wall behind him. He rolls his hips, building up speed until the bed’s shaking beneath them, and he’s pulling sharp, helpless grunts out of Ian. He feels his hot breath on his face, the way Ian’s stomach shivers against his own when Mickey changes the angle, opens his thighs more, sinks down a little lower. He concentrates on how humid the air becomes between them, how their skin slides and catches when they both start building up a sweat. He tries to hyper focus on every little detail, from the way the coarse hair of their chests scrub together, to the sticky press of their thighs. 

One hand slips from the wall and stalls on Ian’s chest. Mickey can feel the way Ian’s heart jack rabbits beneath his touch, and Mickey can feel his own heartbeat kick out of rhythm for a split second. He digs his fingers into the flesh of Ian’s pec, and Ian’s breath hitches. 

And Mickey’s able to feel it all, because this is Mickey’s hard-won fucking right to have it. 

Terry can try to tear down every bit of Mickey until there’s nothing left. Fuck knows he’s tried time and time again, but Terry will never, _ever_ , take this away from him. Terry has no power when it comes to the way Mickey loves, and the way Mickey is loved. Mickey himself made sure of that shit.

Mickey feels a thumb brush against the corner of his eye, and they blink open. He has to blink a few times to clear his vision, and he realizes he’s had them clenched shut nearly the entire time. Ian’s looking at him like he doesn’t know what to make of him; like he wants to ask but doesn’t have the words, and that’s just fine with Mickey, because he doesn’t have the language in his limited codex to tell him. He just has this; his arms curling around Ian’s neck and holding his husband close, lips brushing as Mickey whispers a hoarse “come on, come on, come on”. And getting him there, when Ian tenses against him, burying his hands in Mickey’s grown out locks, Ian’s knees pulling up as his whole body shakes, and Mickey swallowing his moans while he rides it out with him, coming untouched against Ian’s stomach. He can give Ian this, and he thinks it’s enough.

Later, when they’re cleaned up and the room is only lit up by the small lamp above their bed, Mickey takes care of the guns. Ian’s watching him from the bed, tucked under the blankets, watching him. 

“You really think Terry’s gonna come after us?” Ian asks, contemplatively. 

Mickey looks up from the lock box he’s pushing under the dresser, the two hand guns he’d brought stashed away for the moment. Ian’s frowning at him, but he doesn’t look nearly as concerned as Mickey feels. Looks more put out than anything. It unsettles Mickey, but he understands it. This is the difference between Ian and him. Ian’s a worrier, and even though he’s not naïve, he doesn’t really comprehend the gravity of the damage a person like Terry can do.

Mickey pulls himself up from the floor and heads over to the bed, leaning over the empty side to get at his husband. He places a quick, placating kiss against his lips, letting Ian pull him under the blankets. “Nah. He won’t.”

He won’t, because Mickey will cut off his own hands before he lets Terry touch what’s his. 

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing before the Hall of Shame extra, but it definitely helped inspire a more fleshed out version of this fic. I'm excited for the remaining episodes, and whatever the hell is going on with the Milkovichs. We don't know much about the gap between the wedding and the start of Season 11, and naturally I went for a pretty Mickey-centric storyline. This may turn into a two-parter, and if it does, it'll be a little AUish in the start of the next one.


End file.
